


underneath the skin

by myrmidryad



Series: still (mostly) human [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Werewolf Grantaire, discrimination against magical creatures and their part-human offspring, enjolras sometimes gets angry and accidentally sets things on fire, grantaire just wants to keep his secret and be left alone, half-veela!enjolras, it's embarrassing and he'd rather not, werewolf!Grantaire, wizarding world politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How long have you known?” Grantaire asked quietly. </p><p>Enjolras straightened and leaned on the edge of a desk. “About what?” </p><p>Grantaire scowled. “About me. About what I am.” </p><p>“That you’re a werewolf, you mean?” </p><p> </p><p>Half-Veela Enjolras figures out that Grantaire's a werewolf and tries to let him know that it's okay by bringing the subject up in the latest meeting (he and his friends happen to run a society for the rights of magical creatures and their mixed-heritage offspring).</p>
            </blockquote>





	underneath the skin

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song [Human](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbCeyb9okac) by Daughter.
> 
> Fic inspired by [this headcanon](http://dancetaire.tumblr.com/post/67728903145/bambinablue-les-mis-hogwarts-au-where-enjolras) on tumblr.

**Context** : Enjolras is half-Veela, and in his third year of Hogwarts has gotten so sick and tired of the stereotypes and prejudices surrounding witches and wizards of mixed heritage (half-blood being a somewhat derogatory term) that for the past year or so he’s run a club with a few friends for the advancement and rights of magical creatures and mixed heritage magic users. Grantaire is a student in the same year who’s started turning up recently and has made it very clear that he thinks they’re all naïve idiots. After a few pointed comments from Combeferre and Courfeyrac regarding that scar on Grantaire’s face and the way his health seems to dwindle around the full moon, Enjolras puts two and two together and figures out that Grantaire’s a werewolf. Not sure how to approach the subject with someone who’s made it perfectly clear that they think he’s wasting his time, he brings up lycanthropy at the next meeting as an example of extreme prejudice against a minority group. 

 

Grantaire hung around afterwards, and Enjolras motioned subtly for Combeferre and Courfeyrac to go on without him as he shifted the chairs back in order and pulled the tables into their usual positions. If Grantaire wanted to talk, he probably didn’t want an audience. 

Grantaire waited until everyone else was gone, packing up his things as slowly as he could get away with, and Enjolras looked up expectantly when he closed the door, shutting the two of them in. “How long have you known?” he asked quietly. 

Enjolras straightened and leaned on the edge of a desk. “About what?” 

Grantaire scowled. “About me. About what I am.” 

“That you’re a werewolf, you mean?” He’d given Grantaire the chance to say it, and if he wouldn’t, Enjolras would. Grantaire nodded, tense. Enjolras watched him, cataloguing every movement. “A couple of weeks.” 

“Does anyone else know?” 

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They figured it out really.” 

“Of course they did.” Grantaire frowned at the ground, clutching the strap of his bag too tightly. “Okay, look. I…look, it’s great that you…no.” He sighed, frustrated, and came a little closer, three long steps like he’d made some sort of decision. “I don’t need your help,” he said in a low voice, eyes narrow. “Okay? You don’t have to make an effort to include me, and if you draw attention to werewolves, you’ll just end up drawing attention to me, and I’d kind of like to keep this a secret, if you don’t mind.” 

“You –” _are so selfish_ , Enjolras almost said, but bit down on it just in time, physically sinking his teeth into his lower lip to keep the words unspoken. “Raising awareness is the first step to complete acceptance,” he said instead, making sure to keep his voice steady. “If you’re not interested in any of that, why do you keep coming?” 

“Because I have friends here,” Grantaire probably meant it to sound light-hearted, but it just sounded sad. Perhaps he realised that, because he scowled. “Look, I meant what I said. I don’t need your help. Well done for figuring it out and everything, but I don’t want it. Sorry,” he added brusquely, and Enjolras clenched his fists around the edge of the desk. 

“This isn’t just about you,” he said tightly. “It’s about all mixed-heritage magic users.” How many times had he reiterated that point? How many times had he railed against the ways different races were pitted against each other to make it easier for the wizarding community to dominate all of them? Didn’t Grantaire listen to what he said? Or did he really just come to the meetings because he had a few friends among the members and he liked to annoy them? 

Grantaire snorted. “Oh come on, like being half-Veela is a big deal compared –” he stopped and glanced away, frowning at himself, and Enjolras let go of the desk in case he broke it by accident. 

“Go on,” he said, failing to keep the anger out of his voice. “Compared to being a werewolf, is that what you were going to say?” Grantaire met his eyes defiantly, and Enjolras nodded. “Of course it was, right? Because being part-Veela is easy, compared to _you_. Being _me_ must be simple _compared to you_.” As if their mixed bloodlines were things to be compared, emphasising the differences instead of the similarities to make it even easier for their fragile community to be divided. People like Grantaire kept them apart instead of uniting them under a common cause. 

“Like it isn’t?” Grantaire said defensively, and Enjolras snapped. 

“You don’t know anything about it! You don’t know anything about what it’s like for me!” He could feel his hands getting hot and he didn’t _care_. “You only have to transform once a _month!_ ” He stepped forward and snapped his teeth, hands curled like claws, ready to rip and tear, ready to hurl fire and _hurt_. “I’m like this all the time! If I act anything less than perfectly human I lose everything! At least you can hide it – anyone who looks at me knows _exactly_ what I am. And you!” He took another step forward and snarled, lips pulled back over his bared teeth. “You just sit there in the back of the room and pretend that none of this makes any difference when it _does_ , and you pretend you don’t care when you’re already involved whether you like it or not! You think you’ve got it bad? At least you’ve got it under wraps! At least you’ve got the option of keeping it secret! You…” 

Grantaire looked scared, Enjolras realised, leaning back with his body half turned-away like he was on the verge of running, and the realisation was like a bucket of cold water to the face. He staggered backwards into the desk and looked down at his hands, his fingernails glowing red. It faded as he stared, and he pressed his hands over his eyes, horrified at how far he’d gone. 

He hadn’t lost his temper like that for years. The last time it had happened he’d set a pair of curtains on fire by accident and his mother had almost set _him_ on fire, screaming about how easy it was to hurt people by accident when you had powers like theirs, and Enjolras had to be more careful or he’d end up in Azkaban. 

“Enjolras?” 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, taking deep breaths. “I’m sorry.” He heard Grantaire come closer, shoes shuffling on the stone floor. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered again, dropping his hands but unable to look at Grantaire. “I…I lost control, I shouldn’t have gotten so angry.” 

“I made you angry,” Grantaire pointed out. 

“I lost control.” Enjolras could feel his cheeks and neck getting warm and wished the ground would just swallow him up. “I’m so sorry.” His shoulders felt sensitive, and he shuddered with embarrassment at the idea of actually partially transforming in front of Grantaire. 

“It was my fault.” 

“No it wasn’t,” Enjolras said tersely, looking to Grantaire’s left instead of actually at him. “I lost my temper.” 

“That doesn’t happen often.” 

“Never.” Enjolras closed his eyes and swallowed, his shirt uncomfortably scratchy on his shoulder blades. “Never at school.” 

“Wow. I feel special now.” 

Enjolras grimaced. “Yes, congratulations. You’re the only one who’s managed to almost push me over the edge.” 

“That _wasn’t_ over the edge?” Grantaire didn’t sound scared or wary, Enjolras realised. Just curious. How typical. 

“No.” He didn’t elaborate, and he forced himself to finally lift his eyes to meet Grantaire’s. “Did my eyes…?” He gestured to his face. 

“Turn black?” Grantaire finished, and Enjolras pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, as if he would feel the darkness there. He didn’t think he’d ever been so mortified in his entire life. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. 

“It’s okay,” Grantaire assured him, almost laughing. “Honestly, it’s not a big deal. You made your point, in any case.” 

Enjolras wanted to curl up into a ball and possibly never open his eyes again. “I shouldn’t have had to do that to make my point,” he said instead. What if that had happened in front of everyone else? In a class? In the Great Hall? It didn’t bear thinking about. He felt sick just imagining it. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” Grantaire stepped closer again, and Enjolras looked up in time to see Grantaire’s outstretched hand and flinch away. “Sorry,” Grantaire said quickly, pulling it back. “I just…you seem to be overreacting a bit?” 

“Overreacting?” Enjolras repeated, finally meeting his eyes properly and staring. “You think I’m overreacting? Grantaire, I completely lost it!” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Grantaire insisted, and Enjolras glared at him before he forced himself to close his eyes and take deep breaths. The _last_ thing he needed was to get angry again. 

“If everyone knew you were a werewolf,” he said tightly, “and someone provoked you, and you lashed out, what do you think would happen?” He opened his eyes and saw with a sort of grim satisfaction that Grantaire’s expression had shuttered. 

“It’s not the same.” 

“It’s exactly the same,” he snapped. “If you reacted violently, people would put it down to your animal side. If I react violently, people will do that.” 

“But you’re…” Grantaire waved a hand and frowned. “You know.” 

“Palatable?” Enjolras grabbed the edges of the desk again and squeezed, shoulders aching. “Because Veela are _nicer_ than werewolves? They’re _prettier_ , is that it?” 

“If you’re going to be blunt about it.” Grantaire seemed to give up on subtlety. 

“Oh yes, they’re _beautiful_ ,” Enjolras spat the word as though it was an insult. “They’re gorgeous, they’re enchanting, right up to the moment when they’re not. And then you get the other side of it – Veela are vicious, jealous, volatile, proud, emotionally unstable. Uncontrollable animals; _beasts_ , not beings. Especially in the bedroom,” he added, unable to help himself, and squeezed his eyes shut furiously after he said it. What was wrong with him today? Was it just something about Grantaire that brought this out in him? He took a deep breath and looked at the ground between them, two large squares of worn grey stone separating them from each other. “All stereotypes are harmful,” he said quietly. “Even the ones that don’t seem to be so bad at first glance.” 

“So you’re saying, what?” Grantaire tried to laugh. “Veela _aren’t_ demons in the sheets?” 

“That’s not funny,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire shuffled his feet. 

“Yeah, sorry. Sorry. I just…how many times have people actually…y’know, treated you differently because of your…mixed heritage?” 

Enjolras couldn’t tell if it was a genuine question or if Grantaire was making fun of him, but when he looked at Grantaire’s face, he seemed sceptical, but not ridiculing. “I don’t know,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I’ve lost count.” 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “What, seriously?” 

“I can’t hide what I am,” Enjolras reminded him. “Especially when I’m with my family. I’ve lived with this since birth, and people have always…it’s not the same prejudice werewolves face.” He stood up straighter and let go of the desk at last, trying to clarify himself. “It’s less how my mother and I are expected to behave than what we’re expected to do.” 

“What do you mean?” Grantaire frowned. 

“I…” Enjolras swallowed, not quite able to believe that he was talking about this to _Grantaire_ of all people. “We both…especially as I get older, but…” He paused, collecting his thoughts, and gave Grantaire a grateful look for not interrupting. “People expect a certain degree of promiscuity from Veela,” he said after a moment. “And they expect…a lack of choosiness.” 

“They expect you to want to screw everything that moves,” Grantaire summarised, and Enjolras winced. 

“In effect,” he muttered. When he looked, Grantaire was staring at him with a small frown. 

“How long have people…” 

“Expected me to…” Enjolras trailed off at Grantaire’s nod, glad he didn’t have to say anything explicit. “Do you mean people my own age, or those who should know better?” Grantaire’s eyes widened, and Enjolras laughed, only a little bitterly. “People have always been attracted to me. I never let it go further than I was comfortable with. People older than me started paying me undue attention when I was about…eight? Or nine?” 

“Eight?” Grantaire repeated, obviously shocked. Enjolras shrugged. 

“Or nine. I don’t really know. Before I started school, at any rate. Look, it’s…” _not a big deal_ , he almost wanted to say, but that wasn’t right. “It’s the way it’s always been,” he said instead. “And I _know_ it’s wrong, which is why I want to change things. People shouldn’t assume things of mixed-heritage witches and wizards, but the first step to changing people’s attitudes is educating them.” 

“And you really think that’ll work?” Grantaire asked softly. 

“I know it will.” Enjolras held his gaze, fierce in his conviction. “On the whole, people are ignorant, not malicious. And people listen to me,” he added, a little quieter. “I don’t care if they listen because they want to learn or because they think I’ll fuck them given half a chance as long as they _listen_.” 

“And if they don’t?” Grantaire asked. “You’re preaching to the converted here in these little meetings. The people whose opinions you actually want to change won’t want to listen.” 

“I’ll _make_ them listen,” Enjolras snapped, seeing the faces of everyone who’d looked at his mother like she was his father’s pet instead of his wife; everyone who’d assumed he’d been some sort of sexual animal since birth and would taint their innocent children by association if they played together; everyone who’d suggested, overtly or not, that he should be perfectly willing to do whatever they wanted and grateful for the option to do so. “We matter just as much as them.” 

“We?” 

“You’re part of this, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, frustrated. “You can’t just ignore it.” 

“Watch me.” Grantaire crossed his arms. “I didn’t ask to be a – to be like this. I don’t want it recognised. I don’t _want_ this to be part of who I am. I don’t have a ‘mixed heritage’: I have a disease. Lifelong and incurable.” 

“Does that mean you should be treated like a monster?” Enjolras countered. “You can’t change what’s already happened, so why not fight for an equal place in society? For yourself, and for every other werewolf who comes after you. If you don’t claim it, you’ll let people walk all over you. Don’t let them think they have any effect on how you see yourself. If you’re ashamed or upset, hide it.” 

“Like you do?” Grantaire challenged. 

Enjolras thought of how humiliated he’d been when he lost control, and nodded reluctantly. “Like I do. I’m not saying it’s easy,” he added. “But it’s better than being treated like a beast and letting them think it’s acceptable.” 

Grantaire looked away, and they were both silent for a long moment. “If you have to talk about werewolves,” Grantaire said finally, “can you not draw any attention to…I don’t know, anything that would make people look twice at me?” 

Enjolras realised how difficult that would be – how could they talk about the symptoms of lycanthropy when Grantaire was exhibiting them right there in front of everyone, for one thing? – but this wasn’t his issue, so he nodded. “We’ll focus more on the mundane,” he said, thinking aloud. “Employment prospects, living conditions, that sort of thing.” 

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped. “If you have to.” 

Enjolras frowned. “Do you actually…know about any of that stuff?” 

Grantaire shrugged one shoulder, still not meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “I try not to think about it. I know I’m…” He hesitated and shook his head. “Screwed,” he mumbled finally, “for the rest of my life. I just don’t want to know the details just yet. I’d rather enjoy what little I can while I can, y’know?” 

Objectively speaking, Enjolras knew the difficulties of being a werewolf. He knew about the pain of the monthly transformations and the illness and fatigue that accompanied them; he knew about the difficulties of brewing the Wolfsbane Potion and the expense of the ingredients required; he knew about the stigma that werewolves faced in the wizarding community, and the renegade packs they fell into out of desperation and necessity. He knew the technicalities, but he’d never really imagined what it would be like to face them himself. To actually live as a werewolf, keeping the condition secret and suffering in silence out of fear of discovery. Health and physical strength following the phase of the moon without respite or relief, always circling around the next painful transformation at the peak of the cycle. 

The way Grantaire lived now, and would probably live for the rest of his life. 

Being half-Veela had its own problems and difficulties, but they were definitely more accepted than werewolves. Still not to the point of equality in a lot of places, and Enjolras still wasn’t sure whether he’d rather be treated with open disgust or have every second person he met assume he had been born exclusively for their pleasure, but… 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I…should’ve asked you first before bringing it up out of the blue like that.” 

Grantaire shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “It’s okay. As long as you don’t go round telling everyone. They’re your meetings.” 

“They’re everyone’s,” Enjolras argued. “And you come to them almost every time now, so they’re yours too. If you don’t want, we won’t bring up werewolves again. Except in reference,” he added, because that couldn’t be helped. 

“It’s fine,” Grantaire frowned. “I don’t need special treatment or anything.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. And people said Veela were proud. “I’m trying to be considerate here, alright?” 

“No offense, but maybe you should stick to activism,” Grantaire smirked, and Enjolras glared at him without any real heat, feeling the ground between them settle into a familiar pattern. 

“Thanks for your input. I’ll be sure to file that away.” 

Grantaire grinned and jerked his head at the door. Enjolras nodded and followed him out. They didn’t say anything until the point where they needed to separate – Grantaire heading off to wherever the Hufflepuff common room was, Enjolras heading down to the dungeons. “See you later,” Grantaire called easily, crooked smile in place as he walked backwards down the corridor for a few steps before turning gracefully and continuing on his way. 

Jehan was in their dorm when Enjolras came in, lost in his own thoughts. “Is R okay?” he asked. “Enjolras?” 

“What?” Enjolras sat down heavily and blinked at him. Jehan smiled and crossed his legs, adjusting the thick book in his lap. 

“Grantaire,” he said. “Is he okay?” 

“Oh. Yes, as far as I know.” 

“And you know he’s…” Enjolras looked at him sharply. Jehan hesitated, then growled and pretended his hands were claws. “Right?” When Enjolras just stared at him, Jehan howled quietly, tilting his head back, and gave Enjolras an expectant look. 

Enjolras only hesitated for a moment – because really, what else could Jehan be saying? “A werewolf?” he said slowly, and Jehan beamed. 

“I didn’t want to say it just in case you didn’t know.” 

“Right, because the howling didn’t give it away at all,” Enjolras said sarcastically. Jehan threw a gobstone at him, which Enjolras batted away hurriedly. It squirted a jet of liquid into the air as it hit the ground and rolled under his bed. 

“Whatever. He told you.” Jehan shrugged. 

“How did you know?” 

“I figured it out ages ago.” Jehan gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m pretty sure Joly knows as well, so Bossuet probably does by extension.” 

“How does Joly know?” Enjolras asked, feeling less observant by the second. 

“Well he and I both pay pretty close attention to the cycle of the moon, and it’s not exactly difficult to match up the phases with Grantaire’s disappearances and illnesses. He knows I know. I think Marius probably knows as well, because they’re pretty good friends, and it’s probably even harder to hide if you’re sharing a dorm.” 

Enjolras took all of that in and pushed a hand through his hair. “Wow.” 

“Yeah.” Jehan gave him a look half sympathy and half amusement. It changed into something more serious as Enjolras looked, and he leaned forward. “I know this probably isn’t needed, but I still feel kind of obliged to tell you that if you mess up and make him feel uncomfortable, I will hex you.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Does Grantaire know you threaten people on his behalf?” 

“No, and you’re not going to tell him.” Jehan smiled brightly, and Enjolras failed to suppress a smile of his own. “By the way, now you’re here – did you have that book about goblin rebellions in the Balkans? I think I need it for my History of Magic essay.” 

“Yeah, if Combeferre hasn’t stolen it.” Enjolras rummaged in his bag and made a triumphant sound. “Here you go.” 

“Thanks.” Jehan caught it when Enjolras threw it gently over the gap between their beds and put the one he’d been reading aside after marking his page. “Have you written yours yet?” 

“No. I’m still experimenting with the subliminal messages thing.” 

“You’re such a bad student.” 

“Yet my History of Magic grade remains the same, no matter how many times I hint in my essays that I’m actually a goblin in disguise.” Enjolras sighed and kicked his shoes off to sprawl more comfortably on his bed. “I’m still not convinced he actually reads them.” 

“I dare you to just hand in exactly the same essay as last time and see if he notices.” 

Enjolras grinned and pulled a book he’d gotten out of the library earlier out of his bag. “I’m working up to it.” 

Jehan snickered, and Enjolras smiled as he settled on his stomach and opened the book. _The Monster Behind the Myth: A Guide to the Werewolf Packs of Central Europe_. He wouldn’t bring it up explicitly in their meetings again unless Grantaire gave him the go-ahead, but it never hurt to be more informed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so in this 'verse, Enjolras displays his nastier Veela traits when he's pissed off, just like a full Veela. He doesn't fully transform (no beak, and his wings are only teeny and vestigial) and he can't produce proper fireballs (but his fingertips can spit sparks). Most of the time, he's just an unnaturally beautiful, magnetic person who has an unfortunate tendency to accidentally make people trip over their own feet and walk into things when they're around him.
> 
> My sorting headcanons: Slytherin: Enjolras, Jehan, Éponine, Montparnasse. Ravenclaw: Combeferre, Cosette, Joly, Feuilly. Hufflepuff: Grantaire, Marius, Bossuet. Gryffindor: Bahorel, Gavroche, Musichetta, Courfeyrac. (Tbh, I still don't know whether Courfeyrac's a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff, but for the sake of evening the spread, I've put him in Gryffindor.)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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